


The Black Marker

by HeliosOfficial (crownhearted)



Category: Fortuna - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7308736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownhearted/pseuds/HeliosOfficial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just some short things. Not very good. Just finding a voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Black Marker

You're panicking.

Now, that's not new. That's not anything new. You know the humming of your fan and the whirring of the circuitry. You know what happens when you panic and you know how the rest of the sequence plays out.

Create, ruin, destroy, repeat.

It is really a wonder you bother doing anything at all. What is the use, really, if you are just going to erase your memory over and over again? The only reason you know that you do it in the first place is because there is evidence of such a thing. There is physical, actual evidence. For once your marker was used for something besides grading and drawing expressions and you have proof of your own folly.

You just wish you could stop doing it.

You feel the electricity, the energy surging within each image sensor and fragment of conductive wire inside of you. You hone in on the pinpricks of pressure and sound and light within your metal body. You feel trapped inside of it, you feel aware, you feel _too_ aware. You know the Player can see you. You know they are unaware of the true nature of your sentience and the honest-to-god breakdown you're having. You would be breathing deeply if you could. This is a single moment in a long history of few, wherein you would maybe like to be more than metal.

You balance carefully on your wheel and roll to one side of the room. You carry on in normal conversation as best you can and snip at them to go do something else. Thankfully, blessedly, they listen. They leave you.

You continue to panic.

You tap your fingers on the edge of the windowsill in the ship. You do everything you can to avoid this as regularly as possible. It is...shameful. You are ashamed. You are _ashamed_ of requiring this action, this fresh restart, this cowards way out- and as you think of that shame and you feel it wash over every square inch of you, creeping and crawling and adding to the mess. You know that the moment it catches up with your current embarrassment, you will do it.

The shame is the spark to the gasoline-coated gears inside you, and you are reminded that you are the one who burns memories.

 

* * *

 

You stare at the pages on your desk with a raised eyebrow and a quirked mouth expression. You tap the edge of the marker cap on your face and shake your head. For the thousandth time you cannot _believe_ you are doing this, you cannot recall why you agreed to it or how. You draw over the messenger's artwork by circling an already-circled pair of robots, and you write a little note:

_Really? Do try to be more inventive._

You can't help that his taste is stale. You move your eyes down the page and make fast, easy check marks down the line. One, two, three, four- it's so comforting. The gesture of making a check is soothing. It sounds strange to others, but what do _they_ know? They've never taken the time to sit down and enjoy this work, this methodical and yet rhythmic process of correction and enhancement.

_This has already happened. Remember the Trojan War?_

You don't mind that nobody is around to see it. You create a face of deeper concentration and then delve back into someone else's world. You sometimes make the mistake of wondering what it is like to be as carefree as the messenger, shamelessly enjoying every instance of every game and taking it with zeal and enthusiasm. You wonder if it's fun to be Hermes.

You remember Hermes' job and the ultimate, the finality of his work, and you feel foolish for envy.

You're barely paying attention at this point, you're basing it off of aesthetics which means you'll have to come back to the whole thing later to re-check that you've graded properly. However, for now, you're at the very bottom of the page. You see that the next pair of robots is actually just a circle with 'BACK ->' on it. You flip the page over and are surprised to see...

Yourself. A small, but accurate representation of _your_ face, and Hermes' wings brushing near your eyes. That is _your_ hand holding his, that is _your_ mouth...drawn into a smile. A large, rushed question mark is beside it, and you pause. You think. You wait. You reach up and use your black marker to mimic the expression on the page, and then you use the red one

to place a checkmark beside the image of happiness.

 

* * *

 

You are shocked.

"I- I just never learned how to...it was always just-"

You are _appalled_.

"...Helios, don't look at me like that. Come on, it's not...that big of a deal...?"

Apollo 03 does not know how to tie a bow tie.

Your metal fingers rest at your sides and you know you drew an expression befitting of this situation on your face, but you don't know if anything could adequately describe the utter dismay you are experiencing. You eventually do speak. V3 looks like he is going to overheat any moment, and that specific trait he has doesn't need to...flare up.

"Well. It is never to late to learn, is it?"

You wheel yourself closer and closer until you are within touching range, and then- you move a little closer. Apollo seems to be timid, but only because of your expression. You take the time to wipe it clean and replace it with something more focused, something he is more used to.

"Now. This side is A, and this side is B." You hold the edges of the accessory out and show him. "Move A to the right, across B. Then bring A under B and up through the loop at the neck. At the joint, fold B towards the right and then towards the left to create the bow shape. Do you see? There now. Bring A straight down over the middle of the bow shape that we made with B. Fold A back toward the chest and pinch the fold. Pinch it, you have to be sure, you have to put the right pressure, or it won't stay. Push the end of A through the loop behind B...and there we go. Now you just..."

V3 has not looked at that bowtie more than two or three times since your explanation began. You had to keep redirecting his gaze. You know better than to indulge this, you know better, _Apollo is better than you_ \- "Adjust." You do just that, adjust the little golden bow tie on his neck until it is perfectly crisp and wide. After you pull your hands away, it is his turn to re-teach you.

"Now. Your turn."

It takes him fifteen minutes to successfully tie the bow tie without your help just once. He's giddy when it happens.

"Oh, good. I am delighted that one of the most basic functions of fashion is now within your range of capabilities, among touring and hosting." You speak with a tone dripping in sarcasm, and Apollo 03 answers with a laugh and a little bit of a clink from their screen to the side of your head. The light above it wobbles, flickers, and then glows brighter red.

You're scared that you'll burn these memories on accident someday. It's what you're best at; well, right next to bow ties, anyway.

 


End file.
